Viking Terror. Tom Henighan
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we’ll spend the night in the Valley of the Nine? I can’t say I relish the idea.”
“You’re surely not afraid of meeting a ghost, or a fetch, or one of Loki’s evil children?”
“It’s an unpleasant and uncomfortable place, that’s all.”
Rigg laughed, but he was trying to keep his courage up. He had hoped they would track the wolf quickly, bag their prey, and return to the settlement that very day. But the sudden bad weather had made that impossible. Tyrkir, the rune master, would have reminded him that Hagalaz, the rune associated with ice and snow, had changed his life in Vinland and set him on his quest there. Would this spring snowstorm do likewise?
When he was much younger Rigg had been taken to the Valley of the Nine on only two occasions, once to join in a ceremony imploring the god Freyr for a good harvest, and once to witness the sacrifice of a man. He remembered a narrow valley, a grim, rocky place that swallowed the sunlight. And now his aunt Freydis, a witch woman if there ever was one, had power over it. Perhaps he had been too breezy and light-hearted about their excursion there.
He sighed, squared his broad shoulders, and led the way forward. Ari followed. Minutes later, through the swirling snow, they saw that they had arrived at the turning place.
“Look!” Ari cried out. “There’s the marker. The snow hasn’t covered it. It’s here that we go west and into the other valley.”
Rigg nodded, blinked, and saw a great boulder clearly marked with the sign of Elhaz, the rune of protection. That sign, which resembled a stick with three prongs at the top like elk’s antlers, had been scored deeply in the stone — by Erik himself, long years before — as Rigg had been told. His grandfather had set it there to keep away unwanted visitors and evil spirits, and to mark the Valley of the Nine as a sacred place.
The two young men approached the marker stone slowly and with a certain caution. This was really the point of no return, the place they should turn back if conditions seemed to warrant it.
But Rigg found himself more determined than ever to press forward. He leaned across the great boulder, brushing at the wet stone with his gloves and peering at the sky for a sign of better weather.
Then Ari, who was circling the marker in an almost aimless fashion, kicking with a certain disgust at the still accumulating snowdrifts, suddenly cried out.
“Rigg! Come here and look at this. It’s impossible! I can’t believe what my eyes are telling me!”
Rigg hurried over to where his friend stood and gazed down where he pointed.
He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and shook his head lightly, as if to clear his vision. But there was no mistaking what he saw in the snow. It was a set of human footprints, partially obliterated by the storm, but still quite recognizable.
The two young men looked at each other, speechless, then ran forward together, following the tracks, which were fast disappearing as the wind stirred and shifted the snow blanket.
“It can’t be!” Rigg muttered. “These are fresh tracks and there’s no one here. No one could be here!”
“Look where they lead,” Ari said. “Straight toward the Valley of the Nine.”
“We saw no one. We heard nothing.” Rigg spoke softly, as if confirming this to himself. “There must be an explanation. Perhaps they just look like tracks. Or perhaps these are last year’s tracks, and the snowdrifts have made them look fresh.”
“On this stony wasteland? It’s impossible.”
“I know!” Rigg had another idea. “It’s the wolf tracks — the wind has changed their shape. See — they’re not very large. Not made by a man, I think.”
“Why didn’t we find them before? We couldn’t have missed them. The wolf didn’t land from the sky.”
Rigg had no answer. He merely shrugged his shoulders and kept his eyes fixed on the tracks. They walked on, following the trail and not speaking. After a while they both saw, with great relief, that the sky had lightened, that the snow was letting up. Low clouds, milky white and luminous, filled the sky behind the valley’s western wall. A gash in the highest part of the cliff revealed the rocky entrance to the Valley of the Nine.
Rigg’s mind was still churning with wild speculations when the two friends stopped, dumfounded by a new sight that caused them even more consternation.
“Now I believe it!” Ari cried out. “I believe in the hamfarir, the shape journey! See, right before our eyes, a spirit has left the body of a man and taken on the form of an animal. What else could those tracks mean? Unless I’m going mad! I’m not going mad, am I, Rigg?”
“You’re not going mad,” Rigg said slowly. He stared down at the place where the human tracks had changed and become, quite unmistakably, the tracks of a wolf.
“I see the impossible, as you do. I’m confused now and I understand nothing. But, think, Ari, what killed the sheep in the settlement must have been a real wolf. I don’t know who these human tracks belong to, but I know they are real human tracks. And these are real wolf tracks, beyond any doubt.”
“And the one has changed on the spot and become the other — we can’t doubt that.”
“It certainly seems so. The question is what do we do about it? Look at the sky, Ari, the sun is forcing its way through the clouds and the snow has almost stopped. We can go ahead without fear of being trapped by a spring blizzard in the valley. Or we can return home right now and tell about what we’ve seen. Tyrkir will no doubt be able to explain it.”
“I wish I were sure of that,” Ari responded. He was silent for a minute and then continued. “If we go back, though, we won’t be any the wiser.”
Rigg laughed and slapped his friend lightly on the shoulder. “I agree. Let’s have a look in the valley. We may make a great discovery. And we can escape in a hurry if it comes to that.”
Ari nodded. His face wore a faint smile. “I can see you’re just as frightened as I am, and, oddly enough, that makes me feel better.”
They laughed together, then embraced quickly, as if to reassure each other. Each young man stopped to check his bow and arrows; each examined the long knife at his belt. Just to touch their weapons, to make contact with their solid reality, made them both feel much better. All the same, Rigg wondered: would such weapons suffice if they were really on the track of a hamrammr, someone with the power to change his shape into the form of an animal? No doubt Ari was thinking the same thing.
Cautiously, they made their way forward, following the wolf tracks, which led steadily onward, across a rocky outcropping lightly dusted with snow, toward the valley beyond. Now the sun had come out in earnest and the sky had cleared. Dazzling light struck the high cliffs; tufts of snow gleamed on airy ledges. Two reindeer sprang from an alley of boulders and scampered away toward the valley entrance. A white-tailed eagle soared above the massive rocks. Rigg and Ari shielded their eyes and pressed forward, keeping sight of the wolf tracks, while half-expecting them to disappear or to change in some weird fashion into something else.
Within minutes, the two young hunters stood on the loose stones that marked the rocky threshold of the Valley of the Nine. From there they could see that even at its widest part this valley was a fairly narrow place — not more than a few hundred yards across. Yet its steep sides rose fortresslike and daunting, while directly before them, a short distance away, stood the birch grove that gave the place its name.
When they first came to Greenland the Vikings had cut much lumber, and the already-bare landscape had become all but treeless. Yet they had protected this small grove in their sacred valley as a ceremonial place. Rigg was surprised at the valley’s luxuriance. Despite its high cliffs and smooth, barren slopes, the valley floor was carpeted with scrub willow herbs that would bloom red in summer, with wild thyme that in a few weeks would be ready for the pot, and with crowberry bushes whose fruit in season made